Her Eyes

Forty Nine

Pretty long chapter for this week. I hope you enjoy!

"I had another dream," Esmae said, staring at the bedroom ceiling. She was lying on the bed beside Nikolaos in the early morning of the next day after their arrival to Spain, her back against the sheets and her fingers laced together on her stomach.

Her chest rose and fell with every breath, the soft sounds following her words. Nikolaos, who lay in the same position as her, only his hands were behind his head, glanced at her quietly, humming.

"About your family?" he asked, knowing how her dreams usually went.

They were either about her family or the other species surrounding the area. Esmae drew them in her sketchbook – the canvases were all used up in Greece with Nikolaos' little nieces and nephews. The small humans wanted a paint night one evening and begged Nikolaos to let them, going as far as clinging onto his pants to convince him.

He couldn't possibly say no.

Esmae nodded in reply, closing her eyes. The room is warm, she thought, her mind recalling her dream from the night before.

It was a bright sunny day. Summer, perhaps. A faint breeze drifted through the air; it wasn't too harsh, thankfully. The sun was blindingly bright and the rays threatened to burn holes through the leaves' skin, but they didn't complain or whine. They basked in the light, happy to be receiving such warmth after a stormy day passed through. The branches were stronger than ever, and the grass was as fresh as an early spring day.

Esmae's siblings sang. Their harmonies weren't the best – some had higher pitches than others – but the effort was enough. The dryad, having experienced the life and death of her siblings over many years, was quiet. She used to sing many years ago, but once her spirit dwindled, she fell silent and merely listened to those around her. Their songs brought her a sense of peace. Yes, it wasn't perfect, but she appreciated their company nonetheless.

Surviving winter on her own each year, bracing the harsh winds and freezing temperatures caused scars to form and linger - not physical scars on her small, light green leaf body, but those one could not see.

"Sometimes, I wonder if my current siblings will ever see me as the same as them," Esmae whispered, the soft hum of a truck passing by outside filling the silence caused by the gap in her words. Staring at the perfectly white and blank canvas of a ceiling, images of leaves laughing and giggling, swaying with the wind. They were so green and colorful. "What if my mother doesn't remember me?" she asked, vulnerability seeping into her voice.

Nikolaos' brows furrowed, but he didn't speak right away. He didn't try to comfort and assure her that everything would be alright because he wasn't so sure of it himself. He was a human and Esmae wasn't, nor was her family. How was he to know that her mother, a tree in the middle of some forest, would remember her? Perhaps he wasn't supposed to know the answer.

"Did your mother ever talk to you?" he asked, slowly taking Esmae's hand and intertwining their fingers between their bodies on the bed. She hummed, squeezing his hand gently. "Rarely."

It was once in a while after Esmae's constant calling for affection and assurance dwindled. At first, it was her songs. Esmae's mother would hum in the middle of the night during the transition of every season. Her songs brought the leaf comfort during the lonelier nights; she hummed it from time to time even now, having remembered it after all those years.

One day, Esmae's mother spoke to her directly, calling her the lone leaf that lingered and never matured. She could still recall her mother's voice often, the motherly echo calling to her on days when sleeping was difficult even with Nikolaos by her side.